


if i could trade mistakes for sheep (count me away before you sleep)

by frougge



Series: backbone of the night [2]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: M/M, Minor Character Death, Modern AU, Theon-centric, kind of batman au, mentions of drug abuse and alcohol abuse, theon...just goes through it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-13
Updated: 2018-12-13
Packaged: 2019-09-17 17:59:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,228
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16979232
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/frougge/pseuds/frougge
Summary: The first mistake Theon makes is slipping in through the window to wish Robb a happy nineteenth birthday.





	if i could trade mistakes for sheep (count me away before you sleep)

**Author's Note:**

> this is the continuation of [baby tonight just be (the death of me)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15238857) and it might make sense 2 read that for context though this could. work as a standalone too i suppose? 
> 
> n e whom!! hope u enjoy!! 
> 
> ((the title comes from trade mistakes by panic))

i.

The first mistake Theon makes is slipping in through the window to wish Robb a happy nineteenth birthday. He’s well aware of the fact that there’s something of a party (filled with Winterfell’s wealthiest who have no normal interests and who only listen to classical music and spend their time complaining about the working class, most likely), knows that he wouldn’t be let in if he tried to enter through the front door.

Or— _or,_ if he paid a contact to add him onto the guest list, he could have entered. He’d have maybe five minutes before Catelyn Stark located him and threw a fit.

It’s funny, really; Catelyn Stark’s fierce hatred of him _and_ of her husband’s illegitimate son, all while the media swears up and down on what a kind woman she is. He can understand where it stems from—at least a bit, but, really, it must be nice, having enough money and free time to occupy it with hating someone.

Anyway.

He doesn’t have a gift, doesn’t think that Robb would have wanted one in the first place, especially considering where the funds for it would have come from. He knows Robb disapproves, knows he’d probably be fine with just giving him money as if Theon was some kind of charity case.

Theon remembers when he thought badly about it, felt guilty about stealing to fend for himself. Had even wanted to tell Asha that no, he won’t steal. That he’ll live a good, honest life.

But then he realized that the people from their street who do just that still go to jail, still wake up to cops at their door and still end taken away to be locked up for the rest of their life, anyway. Realized that the wealthiest of Winterfell aren’t exactly good and honest. Realized that they don’t notice nor care if a couple hundred—a couple thousand, even—is taken from their pockets.

He knows, vaguely, that he could group Robb in with them; knows he should, to some extent, as he walks around the badly-lit room. Each piece of furniture, each decoration is worth more than his life. His hands pass over the books, over the well-kept spines of each of them, as he waits for Robb to stumble into his own room.

It’s a bit foolish, maybe, because he could have notified Robb some way, but he didn’t. He hopes, at least, that none of his siblings accidentally enter the room—or any of the guests, either, because he’s not entirely sure how he would explain his presence here.

He’s not even dressed for the occasion, he thinks, subconsciously smoothing down the lapels of his leather jacket and dusting off his black trousers. He _could_ have managed to get a dress shirt from somewhere—remembers the look Robb had when he saw him in one—but.

Theon hears the doorknob twists and he moves against the desk as he checks for his knives and secures his whip at his hip and—

—it’s Robb. Of course.

“Who— _Theon_?” Robb says, loudly, because he’s not the best when it comes to stealth and because there’s no filter between his brain and his thoughts. Theon doesn’t chide him for it; instead crosses his arms and leans against the desk.

“Robb,” Theon breathes, watching as Robb slips into the room and locks the door behind him. He looks—well.

He looks every bit Winterfell’s Youngest Billionaire as Theon might expect, but it’s nice, in a way that he thinks only Robb can pull off. He’s ditched a suit jacket—thank _God_ —though the dress shirt he’s wearing is buttoned all the way to the very top and Theon really doesn’t think he’s comfortable with that.

His curls look soft, though, even from where Theon’s standing, and all he wants to do is run his hand through them.

“What are you doing here?” Robb asks, then looks around the room cautiously, as if he could be embarrassed by anything in it. As if Then doesn’t know him like the back of his hand. “How—how long have you been here?”

“Just a bit,” Theon says, occupying himself with dragging his fingers slowly across the surface of the lamp, across the stacks of books set up on the desk. He’s not sure why he came, now, when words won’t form and he doesn’t know how to say what he wanted to. “Do you have some time?”

Robb’s features soften, then, and he says, “yeah,” before moving forward. He stops a couple of steps in front of Theon and stuffs his hands into the pockets of his trousers.

“I came to wish you a happy birthday,” Theon says, trying hard not to think that the situation reminds him of things he’s let cross his mind before, involving Robb and kissing and not much else. “A happy nineteenth birthday,” he amends. “I don’t have a gift for you, but—”

“—but you came,” Robb says, then smiles, genuinely. Theon tries not to focus on that too much. “You remembered.”

“Hard not to, when it’s all over the news,” Theon scoffs, drops his hands and slides them down his thighs to rest just above the knee. He meets Robb’s eyes, bites his lip, “but, yeah. I—uh, I’m here.”

“You know, you could come in—properly, downstairs. Join the party,” Robb’s cheek paint themselves red at that and Theon smiles.

“Not my crowd.”

“Not mine either,” Robb says, a moment passes. “If I could, I’d prefer to spend the night up here, with you.”

“Oh,” Theon says, as his thoughts draw up blank. His eyes flit urgently, between Robb’s parted lips and his eyes, and his hands grab hold of the desk as he tries to get a grip on himself. “I’m—I’m afraid that’s, uh,” he swallows, and, finally, manages, “what about your—your guests?”

“They’d be alright,” Robb says, his eyes now trained on Theon’s. His gaze is heavy—always was, even when they were younger. Theon tries not to show just how unnerved he is about it and instead moves his hands to the top of Robb’s chest.

“Just so you’re more comfortable,” he says, his voice not over a whisper as he unbuttons the first button of the dress shirt. Gently loosens the tie. Unbuttons the second button. Smooths the fabric. “I—uh.” He places his hands flat against Robb’s chest, looks at him, and—and Robb’s got this _look_ in his eyes that screams nothing good and Theon knows he should leave and forget this ever happened.

Instead, Theon commits to his second mistake and leans down and kisses Robb. 

Robb’s stunned, at first, and Theon’s mind races as he starts to panic—he shouldn’t have, he really should have left or maybe learned to read people better so this wouldn’t have happened and—and Robb kisses him back, his hands moving to Theon, his fingers digging into his hips, and it’s suddenly all Theon can focus on.

Theon pulls away, rests his forehead against Robb’s. Even in the dark, Theon can still make out the blue of Robb’s eyes and the curve of his cheeks. “I, uh,” he starts, his voice low and a bit breathless. “I—uh, is this—okay?”

Robb huffs out laughter, breathes, “more than okay,” softly, and maybe Theon’s a bit in love with Robb, with the way he kisses, with this moment, with every single thought that’s spinning in his head.

They kiss again and Theon’s lost in the sensation as his hands move on Robb as they couldn’t before. He feels, almost distantly, Robb’s hands dip under his clothes and the touch burns, and he wants the moment to last an eternity.

“I,” Robb starts, “I—”

—but the doorknob rattles and someone knocks on the door, “Robb?” and the moment is ruined and Theon remembers who the both of them are and why exactly he hadn’t wanted to do—why he hadn’t wanted to start this.

“I,” Robb says again, quiet enough that only Theon can hear, but the doorknob rattles again.

“I know you’re in here,” the two of them hear, and Robb leans his head on Theon’s shoulder, right at the crook of his neck.

_Pretend you’re not here,_ Theon wants to say, _they’ll leave_. But the words die in his throat and his hands slump from Robb back into his own pockets and he straightens himself against the desk. “Go on, then,” he says instead, as if they haven’t just been kissing and as if he doesn’t want Robb to stay with him.

“Are you sure,” Robb says, still loosely wrapped around Theon. He lifts his head to meet Theon’s eyes and Theon bares his teeth in response.

“I’ll be fine,” he says, and the doorknob rattles one more time. “Don’t leave your guests waiting, birthday boy.”

Robb smiles—it seems forced, but who’s Theon to tell?—and moves to press a kiss to the corner of Theon’s mouth. “We have—Jon and I are having a small, uh, celebration of sorts tomorrow. We meet at five, at the bar—you know which one. You could swing by, if you have time, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Theon echoes.

“I’ll see you there, then.”

“Yeah,” Theon says, trying not to make it seem like he’s lying through his teeth, and moves, soundlessly, as he’s been taught, towards the window, “yeah.”

ii.

He doesn’t swing by.

He’s not quite sure whether he can classify that as a mistake or as something he should have done, though it certainly doesn’t feel like the latter when the feeling of his heart drooping low in his chest is just overwhelming enough that he can think about nothing, no one but Robb.

It’s—Theon could still go there, technically. He’s not that far away and even if he was, he knows his away around the city.

Instead of doing that, he lounges on the rooftop, stretches out his legs and silently shifts through the money and some jewelry he managed to pickpocket. It’s not much—a few wallets that managed to get him upwards of three hundred and a couple of bracelets that don’t seem to be worth much, anyway, but it’s nowhere near as exciting as a proper job. It’s been quiet in Winterfell, actually, and Theon’s had to rely on wallets and jewelry for the past few weeks.

There _are_ jobs out of Winterfell—Asha mentioned one in King’s Landing, where Cersei Lannister was setting out her family treasures on display in a month or two. They’re all worth a fortune, of course, and it’d definitely be a challenge and Theon’d definitely enjoy doing it, even with the tantamount stress that’s bound to come with it, but he doesn’t take jobs out of Winterfell for undisclosed reasons.

(All of them include Robb, in one way or another.)

He stretches out his fingers, watches idly as the moonlight is reflected from the leather gloves that he’s taken off to shove into the pocket of his jacket. He should be getting home, maybe, should contact Robb and tell him—tell him what?

It was just a one time thing, Theon thinks, just a—a slip-up. He’s not obligated to tell Robb his whereabouts, to report to him, so why should he? They both know that neither of them belong together, know that Robb belongs in the Stark Manor, belongs behind the tall gates and dark walls, in his study with expensive furniture and old books, in his house, with his siblings and his mother who despises everything Theon stands for. They both know that Theon belongs away from all that, that he belongs in the shitty old beat-down apartment he shares with his sister, in the shadows of Winterfell.

Both know that sooner or later, he’ll belong behind prison bars, locked away for a job or for some other crime or simply being born less than Stark.

He sighs, stuffs the money into the side of his jacket and holds the empty wallets and the bracelets in his hand. He’ll dump them in the sewers once he gets off the building—best do it here, probably, so it’s not too close to the apartment. He’s just about to swing his legs onto the fire escape when the silence of the street is snapped in half.

“—‘m sure something important came up,” he hears and—oh, God, fuck. “You know how it is with him.”

“What if something happened? What if—what if he’s hurt, or—or—”

“—Robb,” and that confirms it, Theon thinks, just so he can kid himself into pretending he wouldn’t recognize Robb’s voice anywhere. “I’m sure he’s fine? He’s split like this before. Or—you know, something came up. He’ll probably come around in a few days and pop in at the manor.”

Theon looks over the ledge, his eyes finding Robb and Jon easily. Jon looks mopey as usual, no surprise there, but Robb—Robb looks a bit beaten-down, a bit sluggish, a bit out of it, and Theon’s heart wants to shrivel up at the mere implication that he could have been the one to drive him into this state.

“You think so?” Robb asks, and he looks up, and there’s—there’s a look of hope on his face, and something in Theon just breaks. The feeling in his fingers loosens and he’s—he’s not sure what he wants to do. He’s not sure what his final choice should be, even as both the bracelets and wallets slip from his hands accidentally and clatter down the fire escape. “What—what was that?”

“Fuck, shit, fuck,” Theon says, hoping the sound of his voice isn’t carried down into the street and scrambling away from the ledge and falling down as he finds himself unable to keep his balance. Their heads had shot in his direction as he stood frozen in place and he’s not sure if they saw him or not—

“—Theon?”

So maybe that answers his question.

His third mistake, he decides, is getting seen. He pushes himself to his feet, feels the skin on his exposed hands tear as he skillfully maneuvers his way around the rooftops as he’d taught himself, ignoring the way he can hear Robb call after him.

(His fourth mistake is telling Asha he’ll take the job in King’s Landing immediately as he arrives home, because he can’t stand being in the city. Can’t stand to pass the rooftops that—that he so fiercely associates with Robb, can’t stand to even think of the possibility that he’ll see him again on the streets.

They leave at the crack of dawn and all Theon can think about, all the way to King’s Landing, is Robb. He wonders whether the actual mistake was in not telling Robb to stay, when he had the chance, but he pushes that out of his mind, instead watching how the sun climbs up the sky and how they leave Winterfell far in the distance on their drive south.)

iii.

He stays in King’s Landing, even when the job is taken care of and even when Asha returns to Winterfell. He stays there, even as the seventh anniversary of Eddard Stark’s death approaches and he knows that Robb will go to the rooftop, will wait for him.

He drinks himself dead that day, paying for it with money he doesn’t have.

He stays there over the course of the Winter; it’s at least warmer, there, than it is in Winterfell. He scales the buildings and the metal elements aren’t as cold to the touch and he gets away with no coat, no scarf, and his old leather gloves. He gets away with a lot of things, as he becomes a lot more careless and steadily worse and worse at pickpocketing.

The longer he stays in King’s Landing, the worse his state becomes; once it’s been four months since he’s left Winterfell, he feels terrible, doesn’t want to drag himself out of the abandonned building he’s taken to sleeping in each morning, just wants to stay inside, prop himself up against the ugly walls and erase himself from existence.

Theon doesn’t let himself do that, though—forces himself up, forces himself to get some money for food because he feels like he hasn’t eaten anything in days and instead stumbles across a newspaper stand.

His next mistake is forcing himself to look at the headlines, to see if there’s any news that could prompt new jobs or anything significant, and when he manages to read the headline on the first newspaper he picks up, written in an awful, red font, he wants to vomit.

(He does, then, stumbles into an alley as he can barely stand. He feels weak, the whole experience feels surreal and he wants to crawl back into the hole he’s begun to call home, wants to—wants to erase everything that he did wrong, start his life from the beginning and not lead it down this horrid path.)

It’s—it’s Catelyn Stark, the woman who’s never liked him, who’s always kicked him out of the Stark Manor, who has a skewed sense of what’s right. The woman who raised Robb, who he knows Robb loved despite all her faults. The woman whose death—with suspected foul play—made the front page of tabloids.

He could return to Winterfell then; he could, he should, but he doesn’t. He ignores the calls that pass through from Asha, he figures, and conveniently loses his phone somewhere on the busy streets. He gets better and better at avoiding the newspapers that start to feature the Stark family more and more; pictures of a funeral, pictures of Robb with the rest of them, pictures of Robb at some party, and headlines that claim he’s been arrested and let out on bail for drug use.

Theon doesn’t—doesn’t want to think about it. Doesn’t want to think about how Robb’s feeling, after he’s let him down so many times. Doesn’t want to think about—about how Robb mourned, how he still had to keep his face for his younger siblings until he simply couldn’t.

Doesn’t want to think about any of that even as Asha drags him back to Winterfell, her gaze heavy with worry but not heavy enough to prompt her to speak to him, to talk to him. She still lives in the same old beat-down apartment that, for once, Theon is happy to see. He settles into the city life at Winterfell easily again, taking small jobs and pickpocketing people, stealing their wallets and their watches right off their wrist without them noticing.

(He finds Robb at one of his bigger jobs, at some party for young millionaires and billionaires to get high and drunk without having to interact with the lower class. He makes eye contact with him, too, watches the way Robb’s face twists at his sight and the way he doesn’t react in the way he once would have. Watches the way Robb ignores him in favor of alcohol and drinks and the company of people he’d sworn were miles different from him.

And, the thing is, Theon can’t fault him for any of it. Can’t fault him, when he was the one to fail Robb when Robb needed him the most, so instead, he does the thing he does best: leaves.)

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading !!!


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